Another End
by Evergr3en
Summary: [oneshot] Life and metaphors of life are never meant to be easy. And if they are easy, one can assure you that it is not real.


_Bb minor: A quaint creature, often dressed in the garment of night. It is somewhat surly and very seldom takes on a pleasant countenance. Mocking God and the world; discontented with itself and with everything; preparation for suicide sounds in this key._

* * *

The keys plink up and down erratically, because the player is erotic with love,

But what is love, he-she wonders?

He-she can't tell, and decides the intermingling minors and Majors will do just fine-playing their alones,

For now.

* * *

The wind, with traces of fresh winter and snow, whispers softly, rustling the tails of her bandanna, and she smiles.

She turns raptly toward the dawning sun, and murmurs, "It's simply wonderful to live in a world with Decembers… I feel as if the world wouldn't be _just_ as complete without them."

"Now, what else are you mumbling about, May Maple?" a tinkling voice asks frankly, and May beams.

"We're so blessed!" she says, sticking out her tongue as if to lick the ball of fire rising steadily up into the sky. "Imagine a world without suns!"

The girls congregated around her eye each other knowingly, and giggle boisterously.

"I think something's severely wrong with her," one laughs lowly, and the rest nod, like a gaggle of bobble heads.

They never see the boy peering at them behind the glass paned window.

. . .

I am curious about her. The girl in the red bandanna. How she laughs, how she smiles, how she lives. I try, but Father doesn't like that, and in entirely his opinion, I shouldn't either.

. . .

I never disliked anyone so much in my seven years of life! _N_e_ver_! Not the girls who whisper and giggle (my mother disapproves of them…I have no idea why); not my schoolmaster (whose whip is more than likely tied to his hand). But this _Drew Hayden_–_Andrew H_ayden–I never met someone so aggravating in my life!

. . .

She sways like a birch sapling in the loving breeze, her large, exquisitely blue eyes training on a white-clad figure that's flickering on and off like a tampered light bulb in the forbidden greens of the forest. She steadies her breath, because her curiosity is enormous, but her fear is just as sharp.

She has taken her first step, when she hears it.

"_Stop_."

She swivels her head and is outrageously irked when the face and body of Drew Hayden somehow has materialized behind her, and his warm hand has somehow found itself in her hand.

"What are you doing?" she asks, looking at their intertwined hands, and then at his face.

_Backandforthbackandforth._

His expression is grim. And he tugs her hand hard, and they somehow find themselves running together–faster and faster under the star speckled sky. When they skid to a sudden halt, they both silently note that a crowd has congregated in front of the Maple household.

"May!" Her mother and father surge toward her, arms outstretched, and the group of townspeople release relieved sighs, sending their whisper of thanks to the heavens.

She feels herself pressed against her mother's warm body, and then when she feels as if she has the bout of (needed) courage, she peeks behind her mother's back, and her eyes traverse in search of a mop of green hair.

Then, she sighs, because he's not there.

. . .

"Drew, honey?"

My fingers clench tightly around my porcelain mug, because it's Fiona, our hired maid, and I _know_ that voice–that _tone_.

"Drew?" The door to my neat and methodical bedroom eases open, and I freeze.

"Yes?" I say, my eyes locking on the mug and nothing.

"Your father would like to see you," she whispers, and the dam threatens to crumble.

I stand in robotic, grim silence. I release the mug from my hands, and I already long for the comforting warmth. "Why?" I ask flatly, and Fiona shakes her head bitterly.

"I don't know."

"All right," I say. And I walk.

Down the hallway. Down the elongated marble staircase. Down toward the foyer.

"Father," I acknowledge, and I want to stab myself when I see his face.

He's the spitting image of me; down to the hair, eyes, face, and body structure. Whenever I see myself in the mirror, I see him.

I detest mirrors.

"Where were you?" he asks, his voice hard.

"Outside," I respond. A thin veil of submission under the core of defiance.

"You should be applying yourself to your studies," he spat, his hand whipping out like a cobra.

_Slap_.

I'm clutching my cheek, and I tremble, rage, defiance, and do I dare I say it–fear, coursing through my body.

"Pull out your arm."

I don't move.

"_Your arm_!"

My face is clear, but inside I'm screaming and shouting and yelling things so horrible that our local priest would have a heart attack.

His belt is fast, and strikes home. So fast that I need a moment to register the pain, and when it does, it makes me gasp, and my eyes to squint into slits.

_Snap._

_ Snap._

_ Snap. _

_ Snap. _

_ Snap._

_ Snap._

_ Snap._

_ Snap._

I lose count. But I don't cry.

The night is a blur, like all nights. Fiona ushers me to my room, her face clouded with anxiety and fear, and treats my wounds, wrapping them in white, sterile bandages.

I want to _die_.

D–I–E.

The medicine that Fiona pasted into my wounds heal instantly overnight. And I'm forced to relive the pain and fear every, every night.

The full moon stands unmoving and cold in the navy sky, and in its ominous light, my eyes catch on a shard of glass–almost hidden in the dark corner.

It twinkles and shimmers, and I find myself stumbling toward it. Then my eyes catch something else.

The mug.

It is viridian green, complete with engravings of leaves and trees that shine white against soft surface. Each engraving is done with the creator's very best–with the creator's heart.

And the mug belongs to the _creator_.

"Damn it," I groan, and though the shard winks tantalizingly at me, I force myself into bed, and into restless sleep.

. . .

"Hi, Drew," May greets happily. "Watcha doing here?"

To say the least, May Maple was not expecting Drew to be at the market. It seems rather…unlike Drew to be at such a common place.

"What's with the tone?" he shoots back. "It's a free country."

The crowd swirls around them like a rushing river and they are like stones.

"I didn't mean it to be offensive or anything," she says, and then notices how pale he looks. "Are you okay?" May asks, and prods Drew's cheek, studying it. The brunette blinks when the green-haired boy flinches back, as if he was shocked.

May's wondering if she ought to feel offended, when Drew commands, "Hold out your hand."

"What?"

"Hold out your _hand_."

May sighs wearily, but does what she is asked of, although a bit grumpily. Her eyes enlarge when she sees the particular mug–its engravings, the leaves…

"My cup," she blurts out, "where'd you find it? It was missing for _weeks_."

"You let me borrow it, remember? The lake?"

May's mouth forms an 'o' in understanding. "I see," she murmurs.

Drew nods.

"Well…then I want you to have it!" May says cheerfully, depositing the mug back into Drew's hand. She notices that Drew's mouth is opening in an attempt to argue, and she quickly says (so fast that she nearly spits in the green-haired boy's face), "_It'sagift_! It would be rude to refuse a gift!" She beams brightly at him, and is pleasantly surprised when he reciprocates the action.

. . .

I blink, because the mug is in my possession. _Again_.

My fingers wrap around the smooth surface, and something that resembles a half smirk and smile comes out.

It disappears when my eyes wander to the corner, and the setting sun strikes the glass-hard, causing it to shine brightly as Jupiter, the star that really is a planet.

Then I search myself. _Do I have it? Do I have what it takes to keep moving on?_

Without hesitation, I think:

_Yes, I do_.

My eyes enlarge, because I wasn't expecting this outcome.

Not at all.

My life is so carefully contrived; I forget that there are curveballs in life.

_Am I…am I…?_

_No_.

Because this wasn't planned.

. . .

I must be dreaming, because I'm blushing. The blushing isn't a big deal (but at the time, it's a complete different story). The cause is usually anger or humiliation. But what _is_ the big deal is that Drew Hayden was making me blush–_romantically_-hours prior.

This. Is. Not. Happening.

Not only is he my yes-no-maybe-not friend, but he's my _rival_. And rivals don't fall in love with rivals. Our relationship is strange enough without love tossed into the equation.

"May, May, May!" sings a voice, and I jolt when a small hand touches my shoulder.

"What," I snap, because I'm in an awful mood, due to my newest revelation. And in addition, the owner of the voice is my brother, and I feel as if I take my irritation on my sibling, it is more acceptable than, say, on my schoolmaster. "Go away," I grouch, and bite my lip, troubled.

My only sibling must be in a good mood, because his following comment is nothing of the usual annoyance. "Mum wants you to wipe the table," is all he says as he skips through and out the doorway.

I find myself resenting his mood, and then I immediately stop, because this isn't like me _at all_.

Then inspiration strikes me.

Hm, perhaps wiping down the table is all there is to it! Say, if I "forget" today's occurrences, I won't find myself turning red and jittery whenever I meet Hayden's gaze. Feeling exponentially pleased with myself, I skip through and out of the room.

. . .

It's getting worse, he realizes.

The drinking, the explosive outrages, the _beatings_.

Then everything's all right because he's next to her, and everything feels so fantastic, and then he wonders if he's going insane.

Because it's surreal for one person to make such an impact on the other.

. . .

It doesn't work, she realizes.

The pent-up feelings, the desires, are what led to the kiss.

And it is humiliating, because she is the one who _initiated_ the kiss.

Then everything's all right because she's next to him, and everything feels so surreal because his lips are on hers, and she's smiling and smiling, and he's smiling and smiling, and they're both smiling and smiling into a kiss–then everything's yanked away from focus, and the kiss is gone.

. . .

He slaps me across the face-his broad hand searing a hot red mark into my cheek. The force is disgusting, and all I hear is the screaming and I frantically think, _May_. I don't see myself crouching on the ground, hurt and bleeding, because a rock has cut across the palm of my hand without my notice in the duration of my fall.

Then the world whisks out of focus again when a something hard and brutal strikes me across the head, picks me back up by an arm, and the screaming resumes.

I am nothing but a dazed, befuddled marionette when my father propels me into the cart, slides the lock home with a _thump _of finality, cracks the whip, and drives away.

. . .

I'm sitting alone, on the side of the road, my body shaking, and tears streaming down my face. Drew is alone and hurt, and will be punished further, because of _me_.

_It's my entire fault_, I think, and it slowly dawns on me. Drew's hands, the medicine, the _lying_.

I feel incredibly stupid, and the tears run faster and faster, until it is more like a waterfall than a stream.

When my tears cease, and I'm reduced to hiccupping, the resolve I've been playing over with my hands like clay thickens, until it hardens.

With my face set, I pick myself up, and begin to walk down the dirt-packed road, determined to never have anything to do with Drew Hayden again.

It's for his own good, and I feel crushed when the kiss comes to mind… If I hadn't...

. . .

Drew lets out a frustrated noise, and watches the brunette–his brunette–skid away from his latest approach, and envelope herself into the crowd like a security blanket.

_What's _wrong_ with her? _he thinks, determined to puzzle out his latest problem.

It has been a month since the kiss, the house arrest, and the most ferocious beating he had been through in ages. His only ally in the house was gone; when his father caught Fiona attempting to sneak into Drew's room, to apply that special medicine, he had immediately sacked her. His father had declared that Drew should get the feel of _real_ pain–an order that Fiona had blatantly disobeyed–and the wounds had finally healed up last week.

The green-haired teen had been looking forward to this moment–to see May, of course (his father was experiencing what seemed like a excruciating hangover at the moment, and he was certain that the older Hayden was sleeping it off, and would stay unconscious till the next sunrise.

Drew weaved through the crowd; his eyes zeroed on May, and was pleased when he spotted a convenient alley to the right. Smirking a bit, he lunged forward, wrapped hand around the brunette's hand, and pulled her inside the dark confines. She squealed a bit, something which Drew found comical, and so _May_, that his smirk deepens.

"It's me," he said, and quizzically found that May was glaring.

"What're you doing here?" she demanded, yanking her hand away from his.

This is like their frenemy days, Drew realizes – not exactly trusting, and snapping retorts at every false step.

And it dawns on him that he doesn't like it.

He also finds that it is excruciatingly annoying.

His mouth opens to voice his thoughts.

But she's already gone.

. . .

I feel terrible. Horrible. Atrocious. _Evil_. And it's too late to apologize. The apology is extremely overdue. And somehow, I feel even worse.

. . .

_I know. I know._ But it's too late. Three years has gone by, and she's still gone. Her house is still a soulless thing, but I find myself staring at it whenever I happen to walk past.

. . .

_They find each other again._

_ And when they do…?_

_ They are far away from where their story began,_

_ and they both find that life just got a little more interesting._

_. . . _

"Drew…?" she says faintly, softly.

She swears that it is him. The hair, the face, the _eyes_. The male–no longer a youth–turns.

He searches her face, and May wonders if he had forgotten about the girl he had shared a kiss with, the girl who caused him pain.

She's surprised when a smirk crosses his lips. Her expectation was that he would freeze, and run, maybe. But males had this queer "manly pride" to think about.

But it _is_ rather typical, when one muses about it.

This boy–er, man–_is_ _Drew_, after all.

She is further surprised when he fairly acknowledges her.

"I believe you have something on your face," he says with a smirk, and points roughly in the direction of her cheek.

Flushing at the open statement, May fingers her cheek, and frowns when she feels nothing. "…Are you messing with me?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

She definitely now knows that indeed, this man is Drew.

_They are the rocks in the stream._

"Guess," he says, and abruptly turns and walks away.

She smiles, because she has seen it.

The smile, his smile.

She leaves, too, because she knows that he wants to talk.

To make up twelve years of conversations.

. . .

_They have aged._

_ But bantering and laughing, living and smiling never changed. _

_ They're bodies may be mortal, but their souls? _

_ Immortal._

_. . . _

"Drew!" she squeals, batting his outstretched hands away. "_Stoooop_!"

"Tell me!" he demands, a smile curving his lips. "_Now_!"

"No!"

"Tell me," he persists. "What has you so riled up?!" He pauses then offers a smirking, "Me?"

(She responds with an, "As if," but they both know that the statement is only half-true.)

May finally seems calm enough to breathe, and then with her eyes flaring like stars, she whispers her voice soft, gently, and hopeful, "Drew…I'm pregnant."

Till the very end of May Maple's life, she couldn't remember another time when Drew laughed the loudest—his voice rapt with music.

* * *

He-she has done it.

It is done.

She is satisfied, and he goes to rest.

Because it has been a long journey,

and journeys must come to an end.

The right end,

and it is so.

* * *

_Bb major: Cheerful love, clear conscience, hope aspiration for a better world. _

* * *

**fin.**


End file.
